


The Stuff of Nightmares

by April_Valentine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, pre-slash?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:49:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoiler alert! Inspired by the promo for Season 2, Episode 13, "Dead Reckoning".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stuff of Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Do not read this if you don't do spoilers. The promo was shown last night (Thursday, 1/24) and this emerged from my brain this morning. If this is after the airing of "Dead Reckoning" go ahead and read.

John Reese did not fear many things. He’d been shot, he’d been tortured. He’d been in fights, in car wrecks, in prison, and he’d faced the death of someone he loved. He did not fear heights or attack dogs, mobsters, needles, knives, guns, black hoods, ropes or zip ties. There was a time he hadn’t feared being alone.

When Root took Finch, he had learned that he feared being without that one person who had found him and given him a purpose. And who made him happy. But there had been something he could do about that. He had torn the world apart to find Finch, gone without food and sleep and defied the Machine to get him back. When he’d found him, when he’d brought Finch home to New York, to the library, to what they did, his fears had eased and he had been whole again. 

Not being whole, that was something John Reese feared. And if there was a bomb strapped to your chest, you wouldn’t be whole. Not if it went off. You’d be in pieces, blown apart, shredded, mangled. Would it hurt? Some said it wouldn’t, that you wouldn’t know, wouldn’t feel. Yet how could it not? How could it not be worse than being shot, being knifed, being tortured, however brief the pain before welcome death?

He used to have nightmares, still did sometimes, of the bad things he’d done, people he’d killed, mistakes he’d made. But a recurring nightmare was of something that had never happened but that he did fear. He would be working at something, trying to hurry to fix a car, to connect a computer... and he’d accidentally touch the wrong two wires together and – the world and he would explode in fiery death. Or he would be reaching, struggling in that kind of dream world where you didn’t know what you were trying to do but only that you had to do it. You had to reach, to strive, to extend your fingers to their absolute limits to... touch... the... button. And that button would set the world on fire, exploding everything, including Reese. 

He would wake screaming, shuddering, sweating... never sure why he had pressed that button that had caused his destruction, but always glad to find it had been only a dream.

He would feel so weak when it happened; couldn’t figure out why he was so afraid. Why something that was so dream like, so nightmarish, should scare him so badly. He had had close calls before, but this was different. It was something he had never told a living soul. Although thinking about it, perhaps the Machine knew. 

Why this recurring dream, he had often wondered. Was it symbolic? He had caused so much death and destruction, did it symbolize the catastrophic end he so richly deserved? Or was it prophetic?

Prophetic, he decided. He had awakened from the horrific wreck of Donnelly’s car to find himself no longer in FBI custody but in the custody of someone far more dangerous. Kara Stanton had strapped a bomb vest to his body and activated it as she purred that she wanted him to do a few “errands” for her. Perhaps the Machine didn’t know, but it shouldn’t have surprised him that Kara did. She had always known him best, known how to take his skills and hone them to razor sharpness, to take his strengths and turn them into darkness, to take his conscience and strip it away. To take his needs and make them desires, to take his heart and rip it out of his body. 

When this bomb went off, more than just his heart would be ripped out. Everything. He would be nothing more than bits and pieces of blood and sinew, insides and outsides so torn and burned and melted that no coroner in the world could put him back together. 

But if he was going to go out this way, he’d be damned if he took anyone else with him. 

Carter and Fusco knew, and he’d managed to get them to back off. But they’d told Finch and Harold Finch never backed away. He hadn’t backed off when he knew exactly everything about Reese’s past and now he wouldn’t when he knew the sickening certainty of Reese’s limited future.

He faced Reese now, with that curious and hopeful look on his face, that expression that said, just give me a moment and I’ll write some code to fix that. Just give me a moment and you’ll be all right. 

Harold’s eyes said, I’m happy too, John. We can be happy together. 

But there was no code. There was no hope. There could be no happiness. There would still be the Numbers though, and Harold had to be there to save them. And, Numbers aside, Reese would give his last breath to spare Harold pain.

It would be like his nightmare, and yet it wouldn’t. It would be sudden and terrifying and anguishing and painful... but he wouldn’t wake up.

He drew his gun. And pointed it at the one person who was most precious to him.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?” Incredulous. Unafraid. _Oh, Harold...._

“If I have to, Finch. Now, please... get away from me.”


End file.
